“I’ll see every last one of them hung—or something,” says Mr. Dunn. “The day for mutinies and piracies has gone past. I’ll show them....”
“Sure,” says Catty, “we’ll show them. But how?”
“We’ll notify the police,” says Mr. Dunn.
“How?” says Catty, “and besides there aren’t enough police on this island to do more than speak loud to this gang of mutineers. Police—fiddlesticks!”
“You’re right, young man. We’re up against it. Say,” he says, beginning to realize all of a sudden what a fix he was in, “what can we do, anyhow?”
“The first thing to do,” says Catty, “is to talk low so the guard can’t overhear us. No use making a plan and telling it to the enemy.”
“You have got some sense,” says Mr. Dunn.
“Wait and see,” says Catty. “Now let me think.”
“Huh....” says Mr. Dunn.
So we sat, back to back, and listened to the mutineers fussing around outside and we began to ache, and the sun got high and the tent was scorching hot, and we began to itch, and nothing to scratch with. I was tired of mutineers.